Needles and Thread
by timenspace
Summary: It's not that he doesn't feel. It's that he doesn't want to. Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock travels the world in search of eliminating the Network. He tries desperately to forget who he is doing this for in the first place. Rating for drugs and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**Needles and Thread  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, Mycroft.**  
>Rated: <strong>T**  
>WARNINGS: <strong>contains lots of angst, drug use, implied violence, and a dark past. So dark!fic I suppose.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>It's not that he doesn't feel. It's that he doesn't want to. Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock travels the world in search of the Network. But old habits die hard without support.

**A/N: **In this universe, "Henry" can also stand for "Henrietta." I originally picked a man's name because it's common in fic such as this depicting loss that it's a woman, and I didn't want that assumption made. Nor did I want the assumption that Sherlock can be categorized sexually. Also don't want the assumption for this particular fic that they may have been romantically involved. That may very well be true. But Sherlock never does the expected.

You can review of how you would like the relationship.

I'm pandering to a wide audience even though I don't own two bits of this - it belongs to Mofftiss and the Queen Beeb. I am so relieved that they would rightfully sue CBS that I am writing celebratory fic.

**0~0~0~0**

Damn, he was tired.

Well, not exactly tired to the point that he needed to close his eyes, though that would be welcome if it weren't for what needed to be done. The case - the case wasn't done. But he didn't particularly feel like using his muscles or moving his feet. He was slumped against the brick wall.

He couldn't sleep. He never slept while cracking a case. Not because there were not times he did not want to, rather his mind raced and insisted facts regurgitated, making sure he hadn't missed anything. Constant with numbers, calculations, observations, deductions.

He threw the plastic cup across the alley, neither aiming nor carelessly. It lazily bounced once, then rolled back towards his direction.

Laws of bloody physics.

He tugged at a lock of his hair in a demeanor that might be described as nervousness, only it seemed to also be absent-minded.

In this particular state he was in, passerby were likely to avoid him.

His cerulean eyes seemed tinged in red from the burst blood vessels. He had the dark rings around under his eyes that indicated sleeplessness, a blot against his pale skin. Paler than normal. Dark curls unwashed and unshaven, appearing even a little dirty. Cheekbones protruded indicating he hadn't had a proper meal in perhaps a week.

All observations would lead to the deduction that he was a crazed addict. Which perhaps was true, but it didn't matter. He had tracked a fifth associate - this time in India's slums.

The police would eventually find the rotting corpse with his brains scattered somewhere amongst the trash.

This associate had proved to be extremely unhelpful and why he hadn't been promoted to Moran's status was quite beyond Sherlock. His loyalty to the psychopath was amazing, to the point that he didn't shudder when he pointed the gun to his temple. Didn't sob or beg for mercy. Appeared unfazed by his cutting insults.

Fed up with his lack of sleep and in one of his dark moods, Sherlock had pulled the trigger. The leads had run out - he wasn't sure where the next contact would be. There was more, this associate - who cared what his name was? - had been stubbornly tight-lipped about.

Even when Sherlock threatened to cut out his tongue and feed it the slum dogs.

After finishing off this last assassin, he was in even a darker mood than before - he traded the violin he'd purchased in Rome on a whim, and what last notes he had on his person for a motherload from one of his contacts.

He was thirsty, hungry - one day wishing to clear his head, the next wishing he could be helped to think.

The concoction did nothing - it only made - whatever he could call it - a mood? Worse.

His teeth felt out of place inside his head as it throbbed with information, with facts, with memories he had no desire to resurface.

_I will make you burn. _

_John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. _Weakness for the innocent, that didn't deserve to die.

_The DNA results. _

_We're sorry, Mr. Holmes. We know he was an associate of yours._

_Associate. Insinuating acquaintence when they'd been so much more than just passers on the street.  
><em>

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, trying to erase the pictures the voices surfaced.

_The blast zone - white hot in flame. _

_Parts dismembered and singed beyond recognition instantaneously. _

_The fine mouth and jawline broken into tiny peices from the sheer force. _

_SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP_

_"You're a genius, Sherlock. Stop frying your brain cells and put them towards something useful. You have skill for this - don't just throw it away and regret what you gave up for the sake of a moment of a pleasure that you know you won't get again." _

_A pharmacy tech. _

_Smiling at him in that uncanny way. A private dig that only they would understand. _

_The connection of a confidant. Someone who would die before they told his dark, painful secrets._

_But the tech did die. Lots of people die that don't "deserve to". _

He wasn't going to think about that. Not now. Henry had been dead for nearly ten years.

_Eight years. Eight months. Sixteen days. Five hours. Twenty-six minutes. Greenwich Time anyway.  
><em>

Somewhere part of his subconscious had kept count.

He stared at the mobile clenched in his fist, the blood to his hand reduced because of the grip.

_Goodbye. - JW. _

He stared at it for a moment. Even though it was from months ago. Flung the phone away from him, watching it shatter and yet still stay held together by a single thread. The temptation was strong to text back.

_I'm still here - SH _

But the plan - the imperfect plan that should have been bloody fucking over months ago still had to be implemented. He knew it would take a proper year - it was going on two.

He found that his vision was blurry for some reason and he was rubbing his eyes again

When he took his hands from his pupils, he stiffened. Someone was standing in the alley. Watching him.

He reached for his pistol but found that he was sluggish - and the figure stood in front of him by the time he turned off the safety.

The silouette stood against the blinding heat of the sunlight, holding his umbrella in what was supposed to be sophisticated but came off as incredibly awkward manner. Last bloody person in the world he wanted to see right now.

Sherlock looked down, angry, pistol still in his hand. "What in hell you want, Mycroft?"

The older brother tsked. "Look what a mess you've made, dear brother. Mummy will not be pleased."

Sherlock coughed in annoyance. "Mummy's been dead for years, Mycroft - I think she'll be quite deaf and uncaring about me." _She never cared before, she certainly won't now. _The thought came unbidden before he had thought out his remark. He usually did not dwell on such things. Wasted emotion on the past was wasted energy. Wasted energy was wasted brain cells. Brain cells that should be occupied with solving who had been in the Network, not crying like a schoolboy.

If Sherlock had been paying attention though, he would have seen concern across his brother's features. Perhaps shame as well.

_Sod Mummy! _His brain wanted to say, but he clenched his jaw against the words. This concoction had worked before, why didn't it work now? The circumstances must not be right. Oh, he had taken burbon before the drug the first time.

But last time he'd had alcohol his head throbbed so wildly he thought his brains would burst from his skull if he didn't know better, and he'd retched so violently he was quite sure his insides were raw.

Sherlock mustered a smirk, hiding what feelings were tumbling around in his head, trying to ignore them. "As to the mess, I would say the body in the alley is quite a mess, yes. Doubt they could identify it with their minimal resources."

Mycroft hummed absently. "And when have you eaten last?"

"Yesterday. Four. Local time. Foster's Deli." Before the game of blackjack, before he'd won quite a bit of money - before he'd gotten the motherload from one of his contacts and paid extra for anonymity. He must have misunderstood the need.

He wished his stomache would cooperate and quit berating him to feed it.

"That's what I thought," Mycroft said, an awkward attempt at sounding like gentle reproving. "Come along, brother, there is things we must discuss."

"What if I say no?"

"Now, Sherlock, don't be like that. I promised Mummy I would look after you. I aim to keep that promise, though you _have _cost me time and resources. And a bit of grief."

He laughed, sounding strangely maniacal. "You really thought I was dead? Must have been a brilliant trick."

Mycroft didn't answer that at first, then avoided it completely. "I will have my people get something for that stomache of yours. It would also appear you may need more resources."

"Whatever are you talking about?" He knew full well what was happening. Mycroft was offering help because he knew there were no other leads to follow, but he would rather watch his brother squirm a little.

"Moriarty's network. I believe I have cleared my own organizations - had to after you just up and offed yourself like that." He seemed mildly angry.

Intriguing that his brother might actually care if he had shattered his brains against pavement. He hadn't expressed such feelings before. He chucked a rock against a bin to avoid Mycroft peering at him so intently - knowing what was going on. The rock clinked disappointingly, instead of the bang he had hoped for. "Oh please. Don't pretend you care. It's not becoming for your political future."

"It may not be becoming but you are my brother. Now, my people are going to put you in my car. We are going to one of my locations where you will have food if you choose to eat - and" he waved his umbrella in a disgusted motion, "we'll be clearing whatever you have strung yourself up on out of your system."

He stiffened. He was not fond of pain - and this particular go round would be - it had been weeks since he had properly allowed himself to think. Thinking was painful.

Thinking brought back comparisons - though even the drugs had seemed to intensify those thoughts.

He shook his head at his brother as "his people" helped him out of the proverbial gutter, and into the fancy car with its leather seats, and the damned smiling man sitting across from him.

Mycroft knew his buttons. He knew that Sherlock - at this moment, would be squirming in his own skin. Already clammy and wild-eyed from coming off the "high" - though why they called it that, he never knew.

He stared out the window at the dirty streets, focusing his brain intently on observation rather than his crawling skin, need for a shower and a cuppa and proper food, and the shame that threatened its way into his brain. It was strange he had not felt this way in quite a long time. Or even hinted that he might admit it.

_John walking into 221B. _

_Inhale deeply. Better. _

_"Sherlock, what are you doing?"_

_"Nicotine patches, they help me think. Pity they banned smoking in the city, these things are rubbish."_

What would John think?

Oh right, John thought he was dead. Probably wouldn't care along with everyone else.

Mycroft was only keeping a promise. A duty. It wasn't because he _cared. _

The Holmes family was famous for being incapable of such feelings.

**A/N: I am sorry I know that wasn't exactly what happened in the flashback in "Study in Pink". I will be back to edit once I have re-watched it. **

**Please review and let me know if this should be continued or a standalone. I would greatly appreciate reviews, I will even give you proverbial cookies.  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:**Needles and Thread  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, Mycroft.**  
>Rated: <strong>T**  
>WARNINGS: <strong>contains lots of angst, drug use, implied violence, and a dark past. So dark!fic I suppose.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>It's not that he doesn't feel. It's that he doesn't want to. Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock travels the world in search of the Network. But old habits die hard without support.

The hot potatoes and the fish and chips warmed him. Didn't quite feel so clammy or famished anymore.

Mycroft had a schedule for him after the meal. He would shower first, and then rest. The painful part of the process would begin.

He took the longest he possibly could in the shower, letting the water thrum into his skin, the dirt crumbling down the drain. He stood under the spray long after it had run cold and his skin puckered with the moisture, before he finally emerged, feeling small in the nightshirt he'd been given for "the process."

Detox implied there was poison that could kill him. He knew just what amount of poison he could take. Besides, that also implied it was permanent. This situation was only to please his brother. Mycroft must have been some sort of sadist for liking his moments of weakness. Sherlock never had liked that, even told Mycroft so one time.

The calm reply was he shouldn't have gotten himself into that situation in the first place. The conversation seemed finished after he stated that he couldn't bloody well help it if he got bored. Mycroft then gestured he should be in bed instead of talking about pointless things. The restraints were not well appreciated. Mycroft told him it was so he wouldn't injure himself.

_Sod injury. Sod this. Sod stupid bloody Mycroft with his bloody duty to pointless morals. _

The first day wasn't terrible. Boring, yes - incredibly boring. The ceiling told the story of water damage, repair, a shooting - or perhaps suicide, and perhaps an explosion of some kind. Likely gas because of the green residue.

The second day passed. He'd counted backward from a thousand two thousand times. He tried ignoring that his hands constantly shook.

The morning of the third day the convulsions started.

By evening he was shaking and shivering so much his teeth were rattling in his head.

At 2AM he whimpered at a phantom, prowling him with it's long teeth, threatening to rip his body apart. Tear flesh from bone.

_I will burn you, Sherlock Holmes. I will burn you and you will burn with me._

By 5 he was screaming. But most of the language was incoherent.

"John... can't lose John... have to warn John... tell John to run...John! get the hell out of there it's a trap... "

Then, sobbing. "No, John - you... don't die... It was my fault, I should've..."

His brother hadn't moved from his position by the door. Clearly looked about 10 years older if he would have been coherent enough to observe.

Sherlock cursed him. Called him every damned bloody thing he could think of. And whatever children he might have. And all his associates.

At 9 in the morning the whimpering started.

"I'll never touch the stuff again, please...just one... 5 cc's... please. I'll do anything... " he was gasping like a fish - desperate for water.

Mycroft gave him a few sips of water every 10 minutes, but stayed silent. Sad, even.

Once he spit it back in Mycroft's face, wanting to provoke a response, but his brother just took out his handkerchief and dabbed it away. Sitting back down in his guard duty by the door.

By 3 in the afternoon he was retching uncontrollably, even when there was nothing left - the dry heaves wracked his skinny frame until he trembled with exhaustion and dehydration.

This time he took the water gratefully - only to have it come up again within a few minutes.

Time became blended into nothingness. Nothingness between terrors so strong he couldn't shake it.

He screamed at phantoms tormenting him. Sobbing, begging for them to stop tearing his name to bits.

_Shercock is a girl! Shercock is a girl!_

_He's a psychopath. You better stay away from him. He's going to kill someone. _

_The girl screaming at him as though he were a monster. _

_You're a machine. Sod this.  
><em>

"Stop, stop, please... just shut up, please...stop the noise, it hurts... I can taste it.. " Sobbing turned to whimpering - then the cycle began again.

Once he thought he felt his head buried against Mycroft's chest - but he could have been imagining that as well.

Finally his eyes closed from exhaustion and he slept.

He awoke to a dark room. The cuffs gone, his hands were folded on his stomach. He sighed.

The process would start itself in time - the longest he'd ever gone on only the patches had been when John was - didn't matter now.

All evidence that Mycroft had even been there were gone. Save a note on the nightstand.

_Fiyero Black. French Quarter. Jerusalem. _

_Take care of yourself._

The note was in Mycroft's hurried style, as though he'd been called away. The last line was underlined for emphasis.

There were clean clothes draped over the bed. He shed the damp, dirtied nightshirt and put on the clothes.

There was a plane ticket in the pocket of the coat over the door. And a few pounds.

Sherlock left in a whirlwind, not letting his brain consider the events of the past day. He was too busy being occupied with the next case. He would make sure this one properly suffered. He would study.

In this country, putting needles under one's fingernails was a common practice in search of information.

He settled into the brief flight, noticing a man behind him with a woman that was quite distinctly not his wife, and another passenger that was clearly drunk and trying to prove that he wasn't. It was amusing, if one could call it that.

The past events threatened to surface as the plane landed. He had no time for the bothersome feeling that he should have left a note for Mycroft even though he hadn't done that since before Mycroft left for uni. He refused to put a word to the endorphin that rushed through his brain at a dizzying rate, even though the word came to his mind anyway. Unbidden, unwanted.

_Shame. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Needles and Thread**  
><strong>**Characters: **Sherlock; Fiyero - an associate of Moriarty's  
><strong>WARNINGS: <strong>This chapter is a little short. I promise the next one will be longer.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I know there are some errors the past two chapters, I have corrected them.  
>I thank you for all the favorites and subscriptions, but - please tell me if I am completely off base or if you like or think it's rubbish or whatever... anything will do *hands cookies*<p>

* * *

><p>The plane landed, gently touching the desert airport.<p>

Sherlock went through security without issue, though they thumbed through his notes a little too eagerly, and seemed to think that Monsignor Reece was an alias, though there was no solid evidence for such.

He had no baggage to claim, which although they found suspicious as well he was not detained, continued on his way.

A cab was easy. Figuring what language to use? He first tried English - but the cabbie clearly pretended he didn't understand it. He knew it was a requirement of employment they all learn some English. It really wasn't that difficult.

Then he cursed in French. He called the driver a mindless, brainless idiot who deserved to be living with his mother for cheating on his wife.

It got him where he needed to go, the rest hardly mattered.

He'd realized on the flight that Mycroft had wisely not given him a weapon. He shrugged. Brother probably didn't want to cross international lines. They were very cautious over in this country, with religion driving everyone against the other - to the point of paranoia. Seeing terror on every corner.

Sherlock thought it odd that such a Spanish sounding name would be in the French corner of the city. That wasn't exactly playing undercover was it?

He looked the part of a French tourist, though he felt half-naked without his overcoat and his dark pressed shirt.

Mycroft must have worried over him sweating to death because the clothes that had been provided was a tan leather jacket and a loose fitting cream colored shirt. At least the pants weren't denim.

He'd been so preoccupied with getting out of that particular hideout of Mycroft's that he'd pushed the clothing color to another dormant file that he had some time to focus on the plane.

At least the shirt wasn't _white. _He would have stood out like a thumb protruding out of one's nose.

He bought a SigSauer and a lemonade and watched passerby, looking for possible clues to Fiyero's location.

This was the sort of exercise his brain needed after Mycroft had - done his brotherly duty. Likely would be doing it again unless this associate proved to be a trove of information.

First observation said the French Quarter was a noisy market. He honed in on a few customers. Filing away what appeared might be vital clues, tossing the rest.

"Yes, I want ten oranges."

"10 quid."

"8 quid."

"Done."

_She wants homemade juice. Probably to appease an absent husband or just to cool off. Next?  
><em>

"See this fine homemade rattan weave baskets. You buy. Good price."

_Store bought, bulk. Cheap that way, then sell at the highest price. Way to make money and be a lying cheat. Next?_

Two men in the corner, hovering over tea. He didn't turn to stare at them, but sipped his own, tuning his hearing in their direction.

"I hear he's dead."

"I bet that's impossible. The detective kill him?"

"What detective?"

"Oh that famous detective that _solved _him. Nobody could figure him out. Bet he got tired of his insane tricks and shot him on his own."

"Wasn't he a fake or something?"

"Who bloody cares. The point was there was a bounty on his head. Even if he was dead, Mr. Em still put money in that account, you just sent a picture and it would download..."

"What's this bloke even look like?"

There was a rustle of paper. He knew they were going to be looking around in a few seconds. Scanning the crowd. Money made people insane.

Moriarty knew exactly how to play that card. At this point, even though he'd seen Moriarty dead - he still didn't quite believe the brains behind it wasn't.

Sherlock calmly set down his glass, and walked off in the other direction.

Into an alley, behind where they were still stupidly sitting.

It would soon get out that he wasn't dead. Once their fellow associates didn't make contact like they should - they would guess that he would be knocking them off, one by one.

Or that someone was.

He had taken care of the three on Baker Street first before he'd gone off to Rome, in case word got back.

He'd made it look like someone taking vengeance on Sherlock, they couldn't know he was alive just yet.

He forced his thoughts to the current problem instead of letting his mind go down it's route of Mrs. Hudson beside herself grieving and John completely numb. Going down that route had let to the last episode of blocking all thoughts whatsoever. He should know by now that once going down a route, it would niggle and niggle until he took some course of action to erase it.

He heard the chief speaker in the alley. Fiyero. Had to be. His associate? Likely non-committal, but still needed to be taken care of.

His associate followed behind - stupid thing to do, yet it worked to his advantage. He pulled the associate into the alley with him with a grab from behind. Two pressure points behind the back of the head rendered him unconscious.

He was just standing satisfied over that when everything went black.

**A/N: A cliffhanger. We'll see what happens to Sherlock next chapter.  
><strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Needles and Thread  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sherlock, Moriarity's associates  
><strong>WARNINGS: <strong>contains blood and torture, if triggers; Leave. Now.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong> I had to utilize Google with the thumb bones, so if it's wrong, my apologies.  
>I'm not Sherlock, and don't know anatomy like the back of my hand.<p>

Thank you to everyone who is subscribed to this, I hope you are pleased with this next development.  
>I may resort to threats if I don't get feedback on it. Just as a warning.<p>

Thank you to **princessangelwings **for the review :D

He fades back into consciousness, jolted by a punch in the face. And another.

"Wake up!"

He listens briefly before complying. Two assailants in the room. Probably a deserted warehouse. Not likely to be seen.

He's tied with rope around his legs, but his wrists are handcuffed. Stupid sods. All he had to do - being without a pin - was to break the scaphoid and slip out of them.

It would heal in a few weeks, but it was the quick way out, and the less likelihood of them continuing to punch him.

He woke drowsily, distracting them while he positioned himself to break the scaphoid. He gritted his teeth - he'd done this once - as an experiment and it had made his whole shoulder feel dislocated.

They punched him in the stomach this time, but at least all the air was out of his lungs so he didn't cry out from the sharp pain.

"Who you work for?" Before Fiyero could punch again, Sherlock brought both hands forward, bringing his good elbow down on the back of the man's neck in a swift motion; however with non-lethal force. The cuffs jangled on his left wrist. As he'd planned.

He was left-handed, anyway - the loss of the carpal bones in the right wrist were necessary. He only needed one hand to break the one chair leg anyway, which caused the entire chair collapse, and the tightly wound ropes to loosen.

He then lauched himself at the other associate, already bruised with the previous assault - with an angry cry.

The element of surprise. It got the stupid ones every time and although this associate was a skilled fighter and was blocking Sherlock's methods of street fighting; he still had several tricks to pull.

He blocked a punch, trying to use the left side more than the right, until he had edged close enough to his assailant to pull a simple woman's trick of enabling him likely incapable of having children. The associate crumpled to the ground, clutching his manhood in pain.

Sherlock then turned his attention to Fiyero. He didn't want to kill either associate until he was sure he had enough information from them.

Fiyero was most likely to know the most about his fellows. The interrogation started, and Sherlock targeted his dark mood towards this associate of Moriarity's.

He first used the ropes as a rig - trussed Fiyero up for proper interrogation - had they really learned _nothing _from a criminal mastermind?

He pulled the unconscious man's hair when he didn't waken at first.

He stared at Sherlock - trying to pretend he wasn't afraid.

But Sherlock knew having the tables turned was far from fun at all. This satisfied him though. He picked the man's pockets. Took the notes. Peeled the half-rotted apple with the man's knife.

"You don't know that your boss is dead do you? He ensured you didn't know." He lowered his voice - whispering into the man's ear - getting into his space, making him uncomfortable.

Considering the area, likely homophobic. Though such details were normally were irrelevant. He typically did not notice the hating idiots. But this he played to his advantage like a finely tuned instrument.

"Moriarity? Naw, can't be - we just recieved orders..."

"Where?"

The man had to be coaxed. The battery they'd intended to drain the information from Sherlock had to be utilized.

"WHERE?" Sherlock was nearly shouting, furious they had to be so _bloody fucking loyal _to this monster.

When Fiyero didn't reply at first, he cranked up the electricity. Shock waves through the body, sends the brain powerful pain signals, brain will do pretty much anything to make the pain stop. Sends signal to speech, the truth comes out.

Thinking about the science made it easier not to give into the temptation to completely dismember this sick freak alive.

Fiyero screamed. "WHERE?"

"Au-Austrailia..."

"I need bloody fucking better than that, you stupid sod now give me a location. A NAME." He rarely raised his voice, but all he could consider was John, oblivious to the the assassin's bullet and the next second - his kind face and unrecognizable mass on the street. This was where he got angry and wished he'd had opportunity to torture Moriarity himself.

Oh wait. Mycroft had beat him to that. Told some valuable secrets there. Some lies as well. Not everything. Still not enough to be _loyal._ He played the game, and Sherlock was no pawn.

"Melbourne..." he gasped.

Sherlock tossed away the apple he'd been peeling. Seized the man's hand. He flinched.

"Thumb already missing, you've already been labeled a thief. Give me a name or I'll take care of the other one for your trouble."

Fiyero hesitated. They always did. Revealing the uppers meant considering weather it was worth their loyalty and torture. Or being found and done away with later.

"Yzma Brix. They call her "Snake"."

"Does everyone have names?" He pressed the knife against Fiyero's thumb. He'd feel warm blood from the cut in a moment.

"Y-yes I suppose." He pressed further, making the cut deeper.

"Codenames?" His voice rose in pitch, the tension growing stronger.

"I don't know, nobody told me anything." He bore down on the cut, severing the finger and the artery.

Fiyero screamed again, this time his agony intensified. "P-please! It's a code. I don't know. They're all symbols for something."

"You're Fire."

"Y-yes..."

"And he's Water." He pointed to the still unconscious fellow associate.

_Moran was Sun. Keplan was Moon. Breshzinski was Earth. They were all dead. He'd taken care of the ones in London the first week. He had to ensure John's safety. _

"It's your rank. How boring."

Fiyero didn't comment.

"Now, how do you feel about dying?"

Sherlock faced him, aiming for the man's face.

Fiyero shook.

"Responsive enough."

He shot the fellow associate first. He didn't have time to torture him, and likely he was the all-muscle, no brains half of the partnership.

Fiyero was now trembling. "Please I can..."

"Help me? Oh please. You've done plenty. Now all you need do." Sherlock aimed carefully. "Is die. Properly. Unlike your cowardly boss who just offed himself by blowing his perfect brain out of his head."

He left the bullet in a rather painful location. Punctured the artery to such that Fiyero would bleed out.

He lit a cigarette, watching.

It was unlikely anyone would find these two. Mycroft had probably already put them as terrorist dogs. But he would take precautions. Mycroft couldn't be completely reliable.

Fiyero gasped as what precious little oxygen fought to keep his blood supply up.

"Do you know the heart beats approximately 95 times a minute?" He paused, taking a drag, holding in the smoke before exhaling.

"When you puncture not one, but two arteries. A person in your condition. It takes about three minutes to die. Maximum that is. Within the first minute a paralysis sets in, that explains your lack of conversation. Within the next minute, the brain's pain receptors fire at phantom times as the blood fights to pump. And considering you rightly trussed like a turkey there will be several quarts rushing to your head."

Two and a half. Fiyero was staring blankly. His lids had stopped fluttering.

Sherlock flicked the cigarrette at the wire connected to the battery.

He calmly walked out of the warehouse as the evidence that he'd ever been there exploded behind him.

He took no chances.

At this point, he hadn't ruled out that Moriarity had faked his own death. Paid someone to look like him.

After all, someone had been disguised to look like Sherlock himself. That person had to be eliminated, for when he thought "coming back" would be a good idea, he might be discredited again.

He never made the same mistake twice.

**A/N: **The next chapter will skip a bit. I feel I will be redundant.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Needles and Thread**  
>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, a doctor**  
>Rating: T<br>Summary: **Someone has to fix Sherlock's broken wrist. Too bad it's not who he really wants in the first place.

* * *

><p>He panted in the alley, the adrenalin ebbed, making the pain in his wrist sharp - causing his head to spin.<p>

He'd likely need a doctor, and he most certainly didn't want to call on his brother again.

He'd be chided for being careless.

A logo of a stethoscope was in the next alley. Likely a doctor there.

It took him longer than it should have to get there.

He rang the little bell, and there was some ruckus including a baby's wail before the door opened.

"Come in, sir." he couldn't be more than twenty, baby juggled in his arms, no sign of a wife or someone to watch the child while he took care of the minor problem. "Just sit up, right there." he gestured to the chair, already decked with white paper. Placed the baby in her playpen.

Though his head spun, he liked to exercise - observing the room. The young man was alone. Wife dead or out for the evening. The child was well-taken care of, but that was a given considering the young man's appearance. Dark circles under his eyes, being both the doctor and the caretaker of the child.

His examination was rather quick, the cuts and the bruising on his face, the broken wrist.

"It would seem you know what the problem is, I hardly need to tell you. You shouldn't be getting into fights."

"They kidnapped me."

"And judging by your coat, they've paid well in fire and gasoline, yes? Though it is not my business and if they kidnapped you then you did rightly."

He washed his hands, then rummaged through the medicine cabinet. "You're not allergic to anything are you?"

"Only to idiots."

The young man handed him the two little white pills. "They're acetaminophen. Should take down the pain and the inflammation."

"Don't doctors inject?"

"If you were in a lot of pain, I would. You seem to be holding up nicely." He washed his hands, set an icepack against Sherlock's wrist for the swelling, and made a quick work of the cuts on his face.

"Nasty people, very nasty," he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Nasty," echoed the child from her crib. "Yes, Nala. Nasty. Well, you'll have a rather terrible black eye, sir. Likely a headache in the morning. And after I set your wrist you shouldn't be doing any manual labor or getting out of handcuffs for quite sometime." he set the bone, though Sherlock winced at the pain. "You're doing very fine." he mixed the plaster and bandaged the hand with gauze for the mold. It was all a strangely quick process.

"Oh, no - just a splint. That will be fine."

"If you were worried about being clumsy you should have carried a hairpin. This should be on for about six weeks if you want it properly healed." His tone indicated no objection.

Sherlock huffed anyway.

"I can charge you triple for my services for inconvience. Since it's likely they took your wallet and bank cards."

"Smart one, are you? Well, they weren't that smart."

"Of course. Have to be in this business. Do you need to phone family?"

"Don't have any."

"They're dead or think you are, and you like that situation. Family is all…"

"….you got. Yes, I have been so reliably informed."

"Ah, there's a breach then. You don't talk to them because you don't trust them."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"If you want to talk to someone," he said, drying his fingertips, "Try the monks in Tibet. They make excellent listeners. Now, can I have a name for my records or are you just going to remain anonymous? Aliases will do, we don't check."

"Basil Rigsby," The alias came easy.

"Hmm. Sign here please. And I normally don't charge, but you seem the clientele that could pay."

He handed the young doctor a few pound notes, but he didn't count it. "Fine."

"Now I would hope that you would see the family doctor in a few weeks. It might itch after a while, for some it's right away. Means it's in the healing process - I wouldn't have it removed for six weeks, if I were you and wanted to keep that hand's use. Now, there's matter of accommodation. Do you have a room to go back to tonight?"

Silence from Sherlock.

"That would be a no, then." The doctor replied, picking up the child that was now quite nearly asleep. "You can sleep on the couch in my office."

Sherlock thrust his hands in his pockets for more notes.

"No, no Basil. Don't have to pay me. Just be gone in the morning before my partner wakes up. Usually drunk, that one."

Partner. The child wasn't biologically his then. That made sense.

He nodded and moved to the couch.

But Sherlock did not sleep - he couldn't. He was too restless and lonely to want to. Went the clock chimed a gentle five, he was out of the tiny office and down the street.

People could be so kind, it was foreign and strange.

The doctor hadn't noticed his refusal to make direct eye contact, the stupid -

Or maybe he didn't judge.

All this line of thinking made him think of John, and he had to move on - to finish what he had started so he could return home.

SH SH SH SH SH SH

The next week Doctor Flynn was woken up by a rather sizable delivery of new equipment, as well a certificate for all-expenses paid to the rehabilitation facility in Surrey.

There was no name to thank the benefactor, but the doctor wasn't a stupid man. The only one that hadn't been a regular was the strange Mr. Rigsby. He must hold a high office - or at least know _someone. _The real question was - who was he really?

**A/N: Basil is a reference to Basil Rathbone who played Sherlock Holmes, Rigsby is in reference to Terrance Righby who played Doctor Watson - though not in the same series. Alongside Rigsby was Tom Baker as Sherlock and alongside Rathbone was Nigel Bruce as Doctor Watson. **

**Rathbone was also in the Errol Flynn version of Robin Hood. He was also in a spoof swashbuckling film of the same era titled The Court Jester.**

**_I also want to thank all of you that have reviewed, you will get a more personalized shout-out next chapter!_  
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